


鸟

by jesspava



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, fixing the power imbalance, ft. will's river bc i love and miss it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 05:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14013009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesspava/pseuds/jesspava
Summary: “Orpheus,” Will murmurs, taking the weight of Hannibal’s head in both hands. “Do you look back?”





	鸟

**Author's Note:**

> 2013 me never would've dreamt of tackling the mess of this show, fic wise. hannibal is such a difficult character to grasp; i can understand why will has trouble feeling the ripper in s1
> 
> it's also been years since beverly was killed, but i feel it in my ye old bones every day :/
> 
> 鸟 (chinese) ＝ bird

There are days when it’s worse. 

Will spends more time in his river than he did in Baltimore State, something that should be ringing alarms if he truly had the energy to care. Hannibal doesn’t interrupt him, not unless it’s something important, though they both have little else to occupy their time out in France. He’d taken the two of them on a tour of sorts — Italy, Spain, Greece — before settling down in the countryside. Will doesn’t ask where the cash comes from, but he knows that it’s old money. The Lecter name has a sway over high society it never had in America.

Today, it’s Beverly. She’s whole this time, dressed in dark-wash jeans and the leather jacket she's fond of wearing outside of lab, and laughs at a joke that’s swung and missed. She’s absolutely atrocious at fly-fishing, but Will lets it slide, watching her out of the corner of his eye, afraid she’ll disappear. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Beverly says, raising her eyebrows.

"I know," he sighs. Out of the trainwreck of his BAU employment, she’d been the first person he’d called a friend. She didn’t take bullshit, he didn’t take bullshit; Beverly would often drive out to Wolf Trap and sit on the floor of his living room to split a box of shitty pizza with him.

For all Jack’s manipulation, she was simpler about everything. Evidence or not. That’s how she judged her people. 

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Will says, tying off another knot. His line goes, cutting through the air, everything gold under the sunlight. The last time she’d “trusted” him, she’d gotten herself ripped by the Chesapeake Ripper himself. Not too comforting a thought.

“Hey,” Beverly says in that way of hers. Something akin to disappointment. “If you don’t want to talk, then I can leave.” 

“You'll bring him back if you do.” 

She huffs. “Jack or Hannibal?” 

Will finally looks at her, though not quite in the eyes. “I’m not afraid of Hannibal.” 

“You aren't afraid of Jack either,” she points out, sharp with semantics. “Though I’m pretty sure he’s always been scared of you.” 

“Of me or for me?” 

“Both,” she murmurs. “Even at the end.” 

“Oh,” Will says, a little dumbly. Beverly looks at him, amused, before sitting the two of them down on the riverbank.

“You never got to say goodbye, did you?” she asks. Their shoulders fit together, bumping lightly. 

“I wanted to,” Will admits, thinking of the letter he’d burnt in the fireplace half a year ago. He’d tried to text Molly, too, but it never worked out the way he wanted. He’d let himself slip into their heads for a moment to gauge their responses, and figured they’d all be better off trying to forget. 

“Are you going to leave them behind?” 

Will laughs at that, flat and exhausted. “That’s the question of the hour.” 

“You haven’t abandoned me yet.” 

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “Because you’re _you_.”

“In spite of who I am, in that case.”

“You’re starting to sound like Hannibal.” 

Beverly looks at him, really, truly looks at him — the kind of staring that’s flat and long and obtuse around the corners. Will digs his fingers into the gaze and lets her have her way. She is dead, after all. “You’re the one who ran away with him.” 

Will’s mouth opens, then closes. She doesn’t turn away, so he doesn’t either. 

They don’t speak for a while, even after Beverly stretches her legs out in front of her and goes to stare at the shore opposite theirs, the heavy line of trees, the sun beaming down in shades of ochre and sienna. It’s quiet here. Beautiful. His river is filled with beating hearts and the vivid impressions of the people he’s loved; it doesn’t feel so empty without Hannibal. There is the terrible chance Will could live here forever and never wake again. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages, eventually. He means it more than anything else so far.

Beverly doesn’t reply. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, feeling tears in the back of his throat. “Bev, really, I—”

“I know,” she cuts off. Her voice is strong, and does not waver. “I heard you the first time, Graham. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

_Hannibal killed you,_ is what he doesn’t say. 

“You didn’t send me after him,” she shrugs. “I said I wasn’t looking for a suspect myself. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine.”  Without looking back, Beverly gets to her feet, crowned in light and ash. She steps into the water, naked shoes and all.

“I wanted our last conversation not to be about a case,” she says, over the rush of the river. She turns to look at Will over her shoulder.

“Is this?” he asks, getting to his feet too. “Our last conversation?” 

Beverly shrugs. “Do you want it to be?”

“I don’t think I have a choice.” 

She smiles, expression folding into itself. “I’m sorry.” 

“Me too.” 

Will doesn’t quite dare to touch, but she lays a hand over his — stopping them from shaking.

“You know what happens now,” she says. “Don’t be like this.”

His shoulders tense. “Knowing doesn’t stop it from being less terrifying,” he says, humorless. “Or painful.” 

“You don’t need me anymore. That’s not terrifying.” 

Will presses his lips together, jaw clenching. “Pretty painful though.” 

Beverly smiles at him, hair tangling in the wind. She doesn’t bother to pull it back from her face.

“Goodbye, Will,” she says. Simple. Plain.

He’s too tired to fight, even if it opens up new canyons in his chest. “Goodbye, Beverly,” he says.

Then she is gone. 

 

—

 

Will pulled them from the sea. 

Hannibal had been unconscious, but Chiyoh was somehow there, impassive beneath the moonlight. They stared each other down for a long moment before she bent to help Will carry Hannibal from the water.

Will had once said: _I’m a good fisherman, Jack._ This, he did not doubt. To untangle Hannibal from the sea, her maws open and tongue swallowing, wasn’t a task meant for anyone else. No one else could’ve lead them here, to rebirth and undoing, to Chiyoh leaning against her rifle as Will eased the two of them into the backseat of the car. 

She’d laid the last row of chairs down, the trunk pillowed with tarp and blankets, still heated from the drive over. In the glove box, a hefty first-aid kit that she took herself, slinging her weapon becomingly across her back. 

“They will be looking for you both,” she said, non-sequitur. Her tone brokered no room for argument, and Will fell silent, leaning heavily against the side of the car.

With medical precision, she dug the bullet from Hannibal’s gut. It was dark and not the ideal place for an operation, but her hands were steady. 

She had cut Hannibal from his clothes, and after dressing the wound, laid him on a towel to sponge clean. It took what felt like forever, but the trunk was spacious and warmer than the ocean had been. More forgiving, even if Will had spent the time under the lion’s eye.

“Come,” Chiyoh said, clothing Hannibal with practiced ease. She tucked him under three blankets, and gestured for Will to move to her. The towel, stained with residual blood and damp with water, she folded neatly together and set aside. She would burn it when the time came, likely somewhere on the side of the street.

She must've given Will something after he held his arm out, because his vision began warping pleasantly around him, even as she stitched up the side of his face. The sound of medical tape was obscenely loud in the darkness, but Will didn’t flinch as Chiyoh bathed him, dressed him, left his side to hook an IV to Hannibal’s arm and attach it to the nearest car hanger.

“The mirrors are tinted,” Chiyoh said, in response to a question Will hadn’t yet asked. “Nobody will see what they are not looking for.” 

“Did Hannibal ask you to come?” 

She zipped the first aid kit back up. “I came myself,” she said. “I thought you two together tend to cause trouble,” she looked to Hannibal, then back to Will. “Moreso to yourselves than others, I am not yet sure.” 

She pulled blankets from the front seat and gestured for Will to lie down. He went willingly, too tired to protest. Anything else, she wasn’t going to share. He watched as she took two towels outside and doused them in gasoline. Her gloves, their old clothes, the odd package of sterile gauze. Even the needles went into the bonfire, eventually melted down into a mass of plastic.

Chiyoh struck a match and let it fall, leaning back against the car as it burned — hands tucked delicately into the pockets of her winter coat. Her hair whipped harsh across her cheekbones and lashes.

“Tell me, Will Graham,” she said, after checking the trunk and passenger doors were secured. “Will forensics find anything from this?”

He shook his head. 

“Good,” she said, swinging into the driver’s seat and closing the door. She wedged her rifle into the space beneath the back seats, loaded but with the safety on. The engine flared to life, smooth and rumbling. The car must have been to Hannibal’s taste; Chiyoh never struck him as the type to care for such trivial things. The luxury she’d beheld was of the older, wiser sort. 

“Rest,” she said, adjusting the rearview mirror. “You are safe here.” 

 

—

 

“Will?” Hannibal asks, coming up beside his chair. 

“Hannibal,” he acknowledges, setting his book aside. The weather’s still hovering the distance between spring and summer, but he’s wrapped in a fleece, legs tucked up under him. “What have you come to coerce me into today?” 

“Nothing so severe as what you must be imagining at the moment," Hannibal says, taking a seat.

“No,” he says, “You’re not asking me to go hunting, are you?” 

That comment gets a tilt of a head. Hannibal can’t quite look at Will from where he’s sitting, but he does take his hand back. “I was simply curious as to if you were present. You appeared to be reading, yet had not turned a page for quite some time.” 

Will grimaces, pushing himself away. He wedges one shoulder into the corner of the sofa, some overpriced piece of furniture that he hated the moment he’d set eyes on it, and turns to look at Hannibal. His hair is going silver, and is loose across his forehead. Unstyled. Relaxed. It is as much an act as it is an admission of trust, but hidden predator or not, very little scares Will these days. Hannibal certainly doesn’t make the list. 

“I was visiting a friend,” Will says, simply. 

“By the river?” 

“ _In_ the river,” he corrects, mirth coloring his voice. “Beverly’s doing fine, if you’re wondering.”

Hannibal’s expression doesn’t change, though Will can feel the residual something at the mention of her name. Not regret, he doesn’t do things like that.

“Will,” he says, almost sympathetic. “I am sorry for what happened.”

Will shakes his head. “Don’t do that to me,” he says. “You know you can’t fix this one, Hannibal.” 

“I assume that you blame me for her death?” 

“You tell me.” 

“You did convince her to look into the muralist’s corpse,” Hannibal says, infuriatingly calm. “Perhaps it was your doing as much as mine.” 

“I said _don’t_ ,” Will’s voice is sharp.

Hannibal pauses, both hands coming to rest in his lap. “You are still grieving.” 

“She’s the only person I ever called a friend,” he says, and the words hurt the way he wants them to. Hannibal gives no outward reaction, not even a twitch of the lip, but Will climbs into his person-suit and feels it for him. “You took that from me,” he says. “The same way you denied me Abigail.” 

“Will—”

“You wanted me to have nothing.” 

Hannibal does not rebuke the accusation. 

“And now you’re coming to me, desperate to know if I trust you the way you trust me,” Will says, “Or if I love you the way you love me.” 

“I don’t presume to make assumptions about your feelings,” Hannibal says, “Only mine.” 

“Barely yours,” he corrects. Swinging his legs off the edge of the couch, he gets to his feet, settles in on the chair by the fireplace. It’s not enough for two, only a single occupant. Hannibal doesn’t miss the message. Will didn’t intend him to. “All this you give me,” he says. “And it’s still not enough.” 

“It never will be.” 

Will laughs, full of air. The sound is not a happy one. Then: “Come, Hannibal,” he says, eyes closing.  There’s no sign to know he’s been acknowledged, except the way that Will spreads his legs wider. Not much, just enough. An exercise in restraint, their relationship has been. 

Wordlessly Hannibal moves to stand in front of Will's chair, expression unreadable as he sinks slowly to the floor, folding his legs under him. Will regards him for a moment as Hannibal lowers his head to rest on his thigh.

It takes a moment, but eventually Will reaches down to cup the base of Hannibal's head, a hand in his hair, to feel the weight of a skull in his hands. He leans back in his chair with an exhale. 

“I love you,” he says.

Hannibal is silent. Perhaps he is praying, likening Will to a god, or God himself. This is as close to rapture as he’ll ever get, not even in the spray of blood that comes from the first incision. This is all he’s ever wanted: to see and be seen, desperate for Will’s attention, Hell-bent on turning the world from him so he may have the right to be his greatest worshipper. It’s addicting. It’s awful. 

“I understand why you took them from me,” Will says. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He collects his words carefully. “Did you know?" he asks. "I took you over the cliff face with me so we could die together.”

Hannibal makes a noise, quiet; barely anything. 

“You’re mine, Hannibal,” Will says. “I don’t need you to believe me when I say that.” 

The morning is quiet, half-lighted, between them.

“I know what it does to you,” he murmurs. “To be recognized by the gods.” 

“Do you claim to be a deity?” 

“You love me like one. You see me as more.” 

To this, Hannibal has no good answer. 

“Look at me,” Will commands, and he does. Hannibal’s face has cracked in every conceivable corner, and Will reaches out to brush away the splinters of his mask. He gets to see the unwebbed eyes, the thinning lips, uncertainty in his shoulders. “Do you get it?” Will asks, unwavering. Now, he is made of marble.

Hannibal swallows, the sound audible. “You don’t need me.” 

“I don’t need your approval,” he corrects. “You love me as I am,” he says. “I love you as you are.” 

“And of the past?” 

“You have wronged me,” he says. “Nothing more.” 

Hannibal spares him a smile. “What a monster you have become, my love.” 

Will takes the weight of Hannibal's head in both hands. “Orpheus,” he murmurs, smoothing down the skin of his cheeks. “Do you look back?” 

Hannibal shakes his head. “Never,” he says. 

The promise is absolute.   


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! always open to suggestions/prompts/etc  
> [tumblr](http://lovetchalla.tumblr.com)


End file.
